


Where Death and Sex Kiss Like Palms in Prayer

by DefierOfCynicalNarratives



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Will Graham, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Choking, Daddy Dom Hannibal Lecter, Dirty Talk, Dom Hannibal Lecter, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Glove Kink, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Power Bottom Will Graham, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sub Will Graham, Sugar Daddy, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefierOfCynicalNarratives/pseuds/DefierOfCynicalNarratives
Summary: Will loved this game. It filled him with the same deep, nourishing pleasure and pride he felt when he cast the perfect line whilst fishing, or successfully put an engine back together – the simple contentment of proficiency. Will had spent his life gleaning these small moments and using them as talismans, hot coals to keep the bone-deep chill of loneliness and the dark abyss of his psyche at bay.But this thing with Hannibal, this game they played, it was different.It's Valentine's Day, and Will, bratty power bottom that he is, is hellbent on goading Hannibal into fucking him in a restaurant bathroom. Hannibal, ever indulgent, plays his part with dedication, and provides Will with some 'zero thoughts, head empty' relief via choking. Leather gloves feature heavily!
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 211





	1. The Fisherman & The Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic and I started it intending to write a very short bit of smut on Valentine's Day, just to see if I could, but it turned into over 10k words of cerebral porn (which, given my personality, totally tracks tbh). All this to say: I hope people like it (and please be gentle)! <3

Will had been petulant all day. He’d sighed and fidgeted whilst trying on the suit Hannibal had got him for the occasion, rolling his neck, slumping his shoulders, and lifting his eyes to the ceiling, all to signify his boredom with only slightly more subtlety than that of a moody teenager. He had felt Hannibal’s displeasure in the brisk chill of his touch as he smoothed and tugged the suit around Will’s frame, tension settling into the corners of his mouth.

“Is the suit not to your liking?” he inquired, adjusting the lapels with an impersonal air, as though Will were merely a mannequin.

“Does it matter what I think?” Will countered.

“I was under the impression that you didn’t care enough about sartorial aesthetics to muster up an opinion. Hence why such decisions are left to me...”

Hannibal’s long fingers pinched a piece of loose thread from Will’s chest and flicked it away with cool disdain. “And my wallet.”

Will smirked. He had him now.

Spending money on Will did not bother Hannibal, quite the opposite. Will knew there was a sugar daddy element to their relationship that Hannibal enjoyed immensely, got off on even, and he also knew that Hannibal had more money than he could ever spend. So for him to pretend otherwise meant that Hannibal was being petty, and petty Hannibal was exactly what Will wanted.

Hannibal’s eyes found the smug curve of Will’s lips before they drooped once more into the pout he’d worn for the past few hours, and this was what Will wanted too. Understanding flashed across Hannibal’s eyes; Will saw it, and saw Hannibal see him see it, and the game was afoot.

“Sorry...” Will said, trailing off breathily, his tone lightly sarcastic.

Hannibal moved to stand behind him, looming over his shoulder, his gaze scanning down Will’s reflection with detached appraisal before rising to meet Will’s sullen gaze in the mirror once more.

“ _Daddy_.”

Will let the word drop off the biting edge of his tongue and splash into the tension vibrating between them, a metaphorical gauntlet thrown down. He felt the ripples spread out through the air around them as Hannibal’s eyes pinned Will in place.

Will found himself recalling their first ever conversation in Jack’s office, how he’d listed his reasons for avoiding eye contact. He’d been petulant then, too, and Hannibal had smiled at his little speech about hepatitis and burst veins.

That smile had thrown him at the time – he was not used to coming up against a force so resistant to Will’s all-seeing mind – but he now knew it to be the smile of indulgent delight that only Will could spark in Hannibal. In turn, Hannibal had been disproving Will’s eye contact thesis ever since. Will had spent the years since they’d met continuously being drawn to and speared by Hannibal’s gaze, unable to look away, drowning in those two dark, glassy, bottomless pools.

 _All the better to see yourself with, my dear_ ... _Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?_

_“Associations come quickly…”_

Will stretched out the hollow of his cheek with his tongue, feeling the scar Dolarhyde had given him, and thought, not for the first time, about how that reckoning on the clifftop had wed them together closer than any marriage ceremony could. How the veil had finally been cast aside and Hannibal had shown Will not only the full extent of his own beautiful monstrosity, but pulled the monster within Will to the surface, giving it permission to bare its teeth and flex its muscles.

Will had learnt in that moment that true freedom, at its most base, primal level, tasted like blood, smelt like sweat and fear, and felt like the tearing of flesh. It was a breathtaking kind of wildness.

Hannibal had been right, the blood had been black and glistening as obsidian in the moonlight, and Will remembered the too-bright whites of their eyes glowing in the darkness, their chests heaving, the overwhelming headiness of their combined power. There was nothing better, no two people had ever been closer, there was no coming back from this, nothing would ever be able to match this high, so what better moment to end it all?

This, at least, was all he’d managed to pull together in terms of the thought process that led to Will deciding to pitch the two of them into the Atlantic. Hannibal had assured him in their subsequent conversations that it had been necessary, a symbolic death that allowed them to be reborn in this new, evolved reincarnation of themselves and their relationship.

_When love is declared between two souls, is that not akin to stepping into the abyss?_

And now here they were, in the aftermath, the afterlife. Travelling the world, living luxuriously on Hannibal’s vast fortune, benefitting from the kind of no-questions-asked privacy that Hannibal’s particular brand of aristocratic European wealth afforded them.

Will had been shocked at how quickly he’d adapted to this lifestyle, so utterly different to his previous life, and to his newfound role of pampered boy toy to Hannibal’s distinguished older gentleman.

Neither he nor Hannibal were strangers to roleplaying; Hannibal in particular, wearing his person suit, deftly navigating his double life without batting an eyelid, but Will too, in his pre-Hannibal years, had turned up the dial of his taciturn professor act to discourage students and staff from requiring him to be sociable.

But this was different. He was in Hannibal’s world now, so entirely foreign to him, and it conversely became easier to embrace that foreignness by acting a part. It was oddly freeing to become a different person, in places he’d never been to, surrounded by people who had no idea who he was or how his mind worked. It allowed him to navigate these new spaces and circumstances with an ease and entitlement that had eluded him in his previous life.

Money made things easier, of course; it smoothed the way for one to behave more or less however one liked. And Will was finding, increasingly, that how he liked to behave was, well, like an insufferable brat. 

It had started as a kind of flirtation. Realising how people saw the two of them as a couple, the assumptions projected upon them, Will had found himself playing up to it. Sulking, sighing, being deliberately difficult; it both amused him and got under Hannibal’s skin in a most satisfying way.

Scratching at Hannibal’s unflappable facade, testing his boundaries – it was a power play for Will, a way to feel some semblance of control in his new life as paramour to a cannibalistic murderer who paid for everything. 

And so Will had started these little games whereby he acted up and acted out, seeing how deftly he could wind Hannibal up, until the tension snapped and Hannibal was unleashed upon Will to seize control once more, to punish, to firmly put him back in his place. 

And Hannibal, knowing Will better than anyone, knowing him on such an instinctive, seemingly molecular level, had quickly cottoned on to this new game of Will’s, learnt the rules without a word of explanation, and played his part beautifully.

They had been flirting for so long, in every way it was possible to flirt, and now they were learning not only how to just _be_ with one another, but also how to continue testing and challenging and stretching one another, which is what they had always done best.

Part of Will suspected that they would both be chasing the impossible high of that clifftop communion for the rest of their lives, and an even darker part whispered that nothing but killing would get them there again.

Until then, sex would have to do. And an irritated Hannibal nearly always led to sex.

* * *

A short, gentle huff of breath brushed the back of Will’s neck, snapping his wandering mind back to the present moment, once more staring down the barrel of Hannibal’s laser-like attention as their eyes met in the mirror.

Will could feel the heat from Hannibal’s body behind him, so close and yet not touching, his own shadow and yet wholly independent, a menacing presence and a constant threat. In that inch of space between them, both physical and metaphorical, danger lived. It had been their companion since the moment they’d met, although their awareness of it, the shape it took, and what it meant, had been in constant flux.

What Will had not expected was to find how so much of that danger came from himself. Although Hannibal loomed behind him like a predator stalking its prey, it was Hannibal’s throat that so often bared itself to Will’s teeth, and Will found it intoxicating. To hold power over someone, some _thing_ so powerful? It made his head swim and his blood feel rich and thick in his veins.

A shudder tripped down Will’s spine and Hannibal felt it. His head shifted a few degrees towards Will, his nostrils flared once, and that was it. Hannibal broke their eye contact, brushed off Will’s shoulders almost as an afterthought, and turned away so swiftly that the sudden lack of his presence behind Will caused him to sway – no, to _swoon_.

_Goddamnit._

“The fit is perfect,” Hannibal was saying to the tailor as they walked away to the cash desk, his voice light and airy, as if nothing had happened.

And of course, to anyone other than Hannibal and Will, nothing had. That was the way it was and had always been between them – whole conversations, debates, negotiations, and duels taking place that only they were privy to.

It was the most potent form of intimacy either of them had ever known.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon had been spent in their separate corners of the house but Will had been distracted the whole time, his attention reaching out to Hannibal’s faint presence like Eldon Stammets’ mushroom spores, seeking connection, attuned to every floorboard creak and the open and close of every door. But this was part of it too, this game between them; time and distance allowing the tension to marinade and become heady and flavoursome.

Hannibal took far longer than Will to get ready and so always showered first. Will found himself drifting upstairs to the corridor outside the bathroom to lean against the wall, listening to the gush and splatter of the water, its ebb and flow shifting as Hannibal moved under it.

Will rocked his forehead against the wallpaper as his vivid imagination, ever treacherous, began to paint images upon the walls of his mind – the ripple and stretch of muscles under flushed skin, Hannibal’s fingers raking against his scalp through slicked back hair, the arch of his exposed neck, all enveloped in thick, wet heat…

The shower shut off and Will came to with a sharp intake of breath, giddy from the rush of blood south and the ache of his erection straining obscenely against his sweatpants. _Traitor._ He flexed his fingers at his side to stop himself sliding a hand under the waistband, and slipped away down the corridor before Hannibal discovered him lurking.

* * *

Will came down the stairs in the slim cut navy suit, crisp white shirt, burnt orange tie and matching pocket square that he’d found laid out for him on the bed after he’d emerged from his own shower. He’d smiled at that, and then twisted his mouth to the side; indulging Hannibal’s penchant for dressing him up like his own personal Ken doll was both vaguely embarrassing and deeply pleasing to Will. 

That mix of emotion hit him anew as he descended the stairs to find Hannibal sat waiting for him, one long leg slung elegantly over the other knee as always, his foot drawing lazy circles in the air at the end of a delicate ankle.

Will felt absurdly like some kind of debutante, the teenage girl floating downstairs to the adoring anticipation of her prom date. The feeling only intensified as Hannibal rose to his feet with the languid power of a tiger, and fixed Will under the beam of his searching appraisal, causing him to falter on the bottom stair.

Three strides forward and Hannibal was in front of him, the step equalising their height, his hands rising to the tie at Will’s throat, roughly tugging it loose, brow furrowed in disapproval.

“Your insistence on the double windsor is starting to feel personal, Will.”

Hannibal spoke to the tie in his hands as he firmly tugged it into place and began to refold the strips of silk over one another, utterly focused on the task. Will tried not to arch his torso towards Hannibal or lift his chin, forcing himself to set his jaw and watch coolly as Hannibal slid the preferred knot up to nestle under Will’s collar.

“I don’t have the arrogance to pull off those big dick knots of yours.”

Will watched as one of Hannibal’s eyebrows rose and fell, acknowledging the foul language and jab at Hannibal’s sizeable ego, but wasn’t given the satisfaction of eye contact. Hannibal was refusing to bite but his grip on Will’s tie lingered, stroking the knot idly with the pad of his thumb, not tight enough to be a threat… A promise, perhaps.

Will swallowed hard at the thought and saw Hannibal follow the rise and fall of his adam’s apple.

“So, how do I look? Pretty enough for you?”

Will watched as Hannibal’s eyes slid past his own to where his hair, still damp at the tips, curled around his ear. Hannibal traced it with a fingertip, the hard curve of his nail dragging along this scalp, then twisted a lock of hair around his finger and gave it a short, sharp tug before releasing and turning away from Will to the coat rack.

“You’ll do nicely”, he said, his back turned to Will as he shrugged on his coat.

“That’s it? ‘You’ll do _nicely_ ’. Not very romantic, Dr Lecter. And on Valentine’s Day. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, you’re usually such a stickler for tradition and ostentatious gestures.”

Will’s words dripped with gently mocking outrage, treading the line between playful and petulant that he knew both amused and annoyed Hannibal. “You didn’t even get me a rose.”

Hannibal turned back to him, holding out Will’s own coat, and regarding him with his most implacable expression.

“We have no need of roses when you blush so fiercely and have been thorny all day.”

Will’s body once again betrayed him as a deep crimson flush crept up his neck, born from the potent cocktail of arousal and furious frustration that only Hannibal served up.

He said nothing, his quick tongue momentarily tied, and exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to regain some composure as he allowed Hannibal to help him into his coat. Hannibal pressed a firm hand to the small of Will’s back, the other gesturing for Will to lead the way.

“Shall we?”

Hannibal’s smile looked placid and harmless, but Will could feel the self-satisfaction radiating off him. He grit his teeth.

_Game on, old man._

* * *

Hannibal’s easy charm and genteel elegance swept them through the restaurant; Will, as usual, feeling somewhat like a toy boat bobbing awkwardly in his wake, until they settled at their table like two players sitting down to chess.

Will slid low in his chair, head cocked and fingers drumming on the tablecloth, and watched with barely repressed amusement as Hannibal swallowed the matronly urge to tell Will to sit up straight. Which is, of course, precisely why he’d done it.

Hannibal picked up the menu instead and perused it for a long moment before addressing Will without looking at him.

“Can I expect this behaviour to last all night or will it perhaps disappear once you have some food in your stomach?”

“Well, Dr Lecter, that depends.”

Hannibal closed the menu and set it aside before resting his chin on steepled fingers and bringing his gaze to lightly rest on Will.

Will loved this about Hannibal, the way he never rushed anything, carrying out every movement with both smooth efficiency and as if he had all the time in the world, as if his entire existence were a choreographed ballet. It’s what made it such fun to try and disrupt, like throwing rocks out onto the frozen surface of a lake, waiting for the delicious satisfaction of that first sharp crack.

Hannibal let the silence stretch between them, refusing to rise to Will’s bait, perfectly content to wait it out, knowing as well as Will did that Will would break first.

“I’m still deciding what it is I’m hungry for exactly,” Will said.

He held Hannibal’s gaze, and carefully, deliberately brought the tip of his tongue out to lick across his lower lip before tucking it back and biting down gently. He picked up his own menu and examined it, but both he and Hannibal knew Will was not talking about food.

Hannibal sat back in his seat as if to get a better look at Will. Will felt Hannibal’s eyes rake over him, dark and possessive, dragging across his skin like nails, spelling out all the things he was going to do with him as soon as he got the chance.

Will stared unseeing at the menu, trying to keep his hand from shaking as the fine hairs on the nape of his neck prickled and his muscles tensed.

In moments such as this, his primal survival instinct recognised Hannibal as the predator he was and screamed _RUN_ , but Will’s desire always overpowered his fear when it came to Hannibal. It drowned out logic and reason and morals, banishing everything but carnal lust to the bottom of the ocean that roiled between them.

When the waiter arrived, Will ordered steak.

“And how would you like it done, sir?”

“Just remove the horns, slap its ass, and send it out here.”

He let the old Georgia twang curl its way round the vowels, knowing that this kind of hokey talk in such a refined environment would set Hannibal’s teeth on edge – quite literally as it turned out. The slightest snarl of Hannibal’s lip revealed the tip of a canine which his tongue flickered over, lower jaw working. And then his face reset smoothly, as it always did, to the still, tranquil pool it usually was, and he turned his attention to the waiter to enquire about wines.

No one else would have even noticed, but Will did.

Will loved this game. It filled him with the same deep, nourishing pleasure and pride he felt when he cast the perfect line whilst fishing, or successfully put an engine back together – the simple contentment of proficiency. Will had spent his life gleaning these small moments and using them as talismans – hot coals to keep the bone-deep chill of loneliness and the dark abyss of his psyche at bay.

But this thing with Hannibal, this game they played, it was different.

For one, it was not played alone, but against a partner who was his perfect match in every way, more challenging and more rewarding than anything else in his life, and with the sole outcome of mutual pleasure. Everybody wins but the rules change each time.

It was both thrilling and comforting to know and be known so wholly, so intimately; the smug satisfaction of being the only person who could notice and read the other’s microexpressions, or sense the infinitesimal shift in tone that communicated what was really being said beneath the words.

Will and Hannibal had mastered the art of talking around things, they’d been doing it for years. A dizzying, intoxicating dance of prowling circles, coming together, falling in synch, before breaking apart again. They had tread on each other’s toes, missed steps, lost their rhythm, but the inevitability of practice had brought them forever crashing back together, and imbued their subtextual machinations with increasing elegance. And now that the thing which had existed unspoken between them for so long was finally out in the open, they were adding new steps to the routine.

 _“I think that’s quite enough of that metaphor, don’t you?”_ This often happened, Hannibal’s voice invading his thoughts, commenting, evaluating, teasing; as familiar to him as his own.

They could sit together in silence, as they were now, perhaps being interpreted by the other lovers in the restaurant as another sad Valentine’s Day couple who had lost their spark, and still be in communion with one another.

Little did the onlookers know that invisible threads of meaning were being woven across the table between the older gentleman, all austere lines and coiled control, and his loose limbed younger lover, whose legs now moved to stretch and sprawl out from under the table.

Hannibal's gaze slid pointedly down to Will’s foot and back up again to bore into his eyes, head tilting. A warning. _Rude._ Will volleyed back at Hannibal by dipping his chin and looking at him from under dark lashes and a quirked brow. _What are you gonna do about it?_

Something behind Will caught Hannibal’s attention and Will turned his head to follow his line of sight. The waiter was coming with their food, walking briskly, arms laden with plates.

Will turned back to face Hannibal and this time they both looked down at Will’s foot, protruding obnoxiously into the waiter’s path. Will watched the cogs turn in Hannibal’s mind as he calculated his options.

Intervening would prevent the seemingly inevitable accident and the embarrassing, messy scene that would follow, but would also show that Will’s behaviour was getting to him and significantly shift their silent power struggle to Will’s advantage.

The waiter was seconds away. Anticipation pooled in the well of Will’s stomach, forming the shape of arousal as it so often did with Hannibal, and rushing south to thicken his cock. His suit trousers were uncomfortably tight around his crotch – Will had suspected for some time that Hannibal had them purposefully tailored that way.

Will shifted in his chair and Hannibal’s focus snapped to him like a spotlight. He made a decision, moving his leg to push Will’s foot under the table and out of the waiter’s path in one smooth, powerful motion.

His timing was immaculate. The waiter descended upon their table, setting down the plates with a flourish, and entirely oblivious to the danger he’d just avoided, but which still pulsed in the air between the two men he was serving.

A breathy bubble of laughter escaped Will before he could even think about stopping it, and another quickly followed as he caught the look of peevish disgust that Hannibal threw at him.

Hannibal had caved and showed his hand by moving Will’s foot; they both knew it. Hannibal was furious with himself and that fury was causing cracks in his self-control. Will was giddy and preening with success. The waiter looked at Will, confused, as he poured them more water, which only made Will laugh harder.

“Thank you,” said Hannibal, his tone polite but his look pointed. The waiter took both the hint and his leave.

Will’s giggles subsided but he could not for the life of him rearrange his expression into anything other than one of smug glee. Hannibal’s entire body bristled with irritation and he refused to look at Will, instead staring resolutely at his own plate as he calmly cut, impaled, chewed, and swallowed.

 _That was no fun_ , thought Will.

Will cut into his steak, the tender meat parting under the blade with minimal resistance, revealing bright red flesh that glistened in the candlelight. Blood pooled slowly across the bone-white china, and Will’s breath caught in his throat at the sight.

Saliva flooded his mouth, and the taste of Cordell’s blood bloomed across his tongue, as it had whilst spilling from his lips at Mason’s dinner table. Or was it his own blood, bubbling up from his gullet as it had when Hannibal had gutted him, or perhaps gushing in from his cheek as Dolarhyde’s knife pierced him?

Will wondered vaguely if it was possible to taste the difference between his own blood and that of another; it was surely a matter of training one’s palette. Hannibal probably could.

He looked up and found Hannibal also watching the crimson bloom its way across Will’s plate, knife and fork paused over his own. Their eyes met and, for the first time since the clifftop, Will saw his own expression on Hannibal’s face. Eyes dark and clouded by lust, mouth slack with anticipation, the rise and fall of their chests quickening.

Will was drunk on more than the wine; he felt a giddy rush of reckless desire to press his advantage and push Hannibal over the edge. He didn’t normally attempt the final stage of the game in public but a curious wildness had gripped Will all day and the blood only unleashed it further.

He carefully set down his knife and fork to rest against the sides of his plate, and hooked a finger into the knot of his tie, working it loose and leaving it skewed to the side. He undid the top button of his shirt with a deft flick of finger and thumb, and opened it sloppily to bare the hollow at the base of his throat. He slumped lower in his chair, looking like the cliched picture of ‘rumpled detective at the end of a long day’, and once again stretched out his legs either side of the table.

A muscle jumped under one of Hannibal’s eyes as he watched Will deliberately smudge the brushstrokes of his perfect creation. It was as if Will had lunged across the table and messed up Hannibal’s flawless hair. It was, as Hannibal would put it, unspeakably rude.

But Will wasn’t done just yet. He picked up his knife and fork again, cut a large chunk of steak, brought it to his teeth, and bit down _hard_.

The bloody juice gushed out of the red flesh and ran down Will’s chin in a smooth rivulet, attempting to traverse the underside of his jaw before succumbing to gravity and dropping one, two splashes onto the pristine white of his collar.

Hannibal’s eyes followed all of this, and Will imagined the scarlet stain blooming as it soaked into the cotton, just as desire bloomed now in his stomach like liquid heat. He’d been half hard all evening, if truth be told, but he felt the fresh, potent plunge of blood to his cock as Hannibal met his eyes. He swallowed hard, the mouthful of steak a solid lump in his throat.

Hannibal had been deathly still throughout Will’s little performance. Stillness was one of Hannibal’s superpowers; he channeled a state of perpetual poise that revealed nothing of the coiled energy just beneath the surface. Only Will could sense when that surface was about to break, when calm shifted into threat.

This is what happened now, as Hannibal finally came back to life, setting down his knife and fork together on his plate, buttoning his suit jacket, and standing.

He stepped to Will’s side and picked up Will’s napkin, shaking it out with a deft little flourish, and bent low until their faces were level and inches apart. He brought two fingers wrapped in thick cotton to Will’s mouth and pressed them against his skin, wiping down his chin firmly, following the bloody path.

Hannibal seemed not to breathe but Will’s breath stuttered out over lips still wet and red from the meat. He knew Hannibal could smell it on his breath, iron and umami, as well as the scent of his arousal.

Hannibal’s nose was yet another way that Will was laid bare to him, another method of stripping Will naked. There was no hiding from Hannibal, and, now that he’d learned to stop fighting this inevitability, Will found it unbearably erotic.

Hannibal gripped the loosened knot of Will’s tie in his fist and pulled the silk tight with the other hand, slowly, slowly, until it bunched his undone collar against his trachea and began to squeeze.

To any onlookers, the entire moment would look like a simple, casual act of tenderness by a fastidious lover. Only Will knew the danger he was in, the danger he had needled and coaxed out of Hannibal all day, and only Will heard the words that rumbled from Hannibal’s lips.

“I am going to pay the bill, and you will meet me in the bathroom in five minutes.”

“But I haven’t finished eating, Dr. Lecter. In fact, I’ve only just begun.”

Will tried to match Hannibal’s calm, even tone, enunciating each word carefully and pushing them out past the pressure being applied at his throat, a pressure that increased as Hannibal tightened his grip and tugged on Will’s tie, demanding Will meet his eyes. 

“You are finished."

It was a firm statement of fact, a promise for what lay in store for Will, and a reminder of the only rule that ever stayed the same: Will may start the game, but Hannibal always ended it.

Hannibal released him, straightened up, and walked away, leaving Will to loosen the knot at his neck and drag a shaky breath into his lungs. He realised he’d been gripping the edge of the table, palms damp with sweat. His cock throbbed and he tried to will it into submission, anticipating the walk from the table to the bathroom with a visible erection.

He looked down at the blood pooled around the now forgotten steak and saw his face reflected back at him, glassy eyed and stained red, just as it had been that night on the clifftop. He felt, as he always did at this point in the game, the proverbial stones skitter away from under his feet and over the edge of the yawning abyss.


	2. Devoured & Caught

Will pushed open the door to the men’s bathroom and stepped into darkness. He had a moment of blank confusion as the door swung shut behind him, and then realisation as a presence solidified out of the blackness behind him, and the voice of his shadow spoke low against the back of his neck.

“Tell me your word.”

“Windego,” Will answered in a breathy whisper.

“Good. Let’s begin.” And Will was grabbed from behind.

One strong arm closed vice-like around him and a hand clamped over his mouth. Hannibal crushed Will’s torso against his chest, pinning his arms to his side, and perched his head over Will’s right shoulder.

Will assessed the information available to him.

It was buttery leather gripping the lower half of his face – Hannibal always had a pair of leather gloves in the pocket of whichever coat he was wearing – and Will appreciated the attention to detail in what was presumably a spontaneously thrown together scenario. Although you never could tell with Hannibal; it was just as possible that he had planned this since Will had set the game in motion earlier that day, called ahead and paid the restaurant to let them have use of the bathroom. Or even arranged it minutes before when he’d paid the bill. Will’s time with Hannibal had taught him that enough money could buy more or less anything, and to never underestimate Hannibal.

But Will wasn’t to be underestimated either.

He twisted his head from side to side, working his mouth open under Hannibal’s hand, and, as Hannibal readjusted his grip, Will bit down hard on a gloved finger, simultaneously slamming his elbows back into Hannibal’s ribs.

He was rewarded by a hiss of breath from Hannibal, but Hannibal’s hold on him only tightened and adjusted to prevent Will from doing it again. He dug his chin into Will’s shoulder and Will could _feel_ him smile.

“Feral little thing, aren’t you?”

Hannibal’s voice was laced with dark amusement and that streak of fierce pride that came out whenever Will gave into his more animalistic tendencies, and god, those words and that tone, poured into his ear in a hot rush of breath, shot through Will’s body like an arrow and sent a bolt of pleasure to his crotch.

A strangled moan vibrated up through his throat and he knew Hannibal would feel it against his chest. Will bucked against him, feeling exactly like the small, trapped creature Hannibal’s words implied, entirely at his mercy.

Hannibal nosed at the side of Will’s neck, surely feeling the frantic jump of Will’s pulse under hot flesh. Will tried to twist and shake his head free but Hannibal’s gloved hand held fast, tipping his head back over Hannibal’s shoulder, crushing his ribs beneath that one muscular arm.

Will’s breath whistled hard and fast through his nose as Hannibal raked his sharp teeth lazily up the column of Will’s arched throat, his tongue coming out to lick a wet stripe of heat over sweat-salted skin.

The darkness and lack of visual stimuli had his other senses keyed up. He’d never felt so vulnerable and yet so safe in his entire life.

This entire scenario was Will’s design, and Hannibal knew it by now, knew what was expected of him because Will’s keen mind had perfectly tailored the role to him. He only had to do what came naturally. It was so simple, so elegant.

Will was the fisherman and Hannibal the hunter. Will knew how to lure and trap, Hannibal knew how to stalk and attack. Will wanted to be devoured and Hannibal wanted to be caught. Together, they were each other’s solution to the seemingly impossible dilemma of their individual existence. When Will thought of the improbability of them finding each other, he felt nauseous with disbelief and gratitude.

But now, Will had to focus. He blinked rapidly and looked around the room, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness. A faint orange glow seeped in via narrow transom windows above the toilet stalls. His imagination worked quickly.

What he wanted was for Hannibal to drag him into a cubicle and fuck him against the door, rough and dirty like a drunken, anonymous encounter in a seedy club. But how to communicate this to Hannibal?

Will allowed his body to slacken, and a soft whimper to escape him. He ground his hips back against Hannibal crotch, where the rigid shape of his erection pressed into the curve of Will’s ass. An acquiescence. A pleading. Hannibal hummed thoughtfully.

“That’s better. If I remove my hand, will you be good?”

Will nodded. Hannibal slowly peeled back his fingers from Will’s mouth, damp from the condensation of Will’s breath and saliva.

“Fuck you”, Will spat, loud enough to be heard be anyone passing near the door, and stamped down hard on Hannibal’s foot.

It had the desired effect. Hannibal gave a grunt that became a growl, more of fury than pain, and instantly clamped his hand over Will’s mouth again, muffling his slightly melodramatic moans. Will thrashed as if truly meaning to fight free this time.

The arm around his torso tensed and yanked him up, as if Will weighed hardly anything. Hannibal leaned back and Will’s feet came off the ground as Hannibal strode forward, away from the door and the danger of discovery.

Hannibal practically threw Will into one of the cubicles, releasing him for the first time since Will had stepped into the bathroom. Will, shocked at being free from Hannibal’s clutches, lost his balance momentarily and as he stumbled to avoid the toilet, Hannibal locked the door behind him.

He rounded on Will, eyes all danger and onyx, and, not for the first time, looked to Will like some kind of mythical being, made of shadows and malevolence and power. Will stilled, hands braced against the cubicle walls, feet either side of the toilet. For a shimmering heartbeat they stared at each other.

And then Hannibal pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth, took it in hand and slapped Will hard across the face with it. It happened so quickly, the smack cutting through the air with a kind of dull finality, choking an incredulous huff of air from Will’s mouth.

“ _Brat_.”

Hannibal spat the word at him, hard consonants dripping with disdain, and it unlocked something in Will. His aching cock, constrained in those too-tight trousers, pulsed so hard it hurt, and his body felt suddenly like molasses, heavy and shapeless, thick with yearning.

He panted for a moment as if winded, and then dragged his eyes up to look at Hannibal through his lashes. Hannibal coolly returned his gaze and dipped his chin as if to say “Interesting”. Will knew Hannibal was registering the effect that word had had on him, no doubt filing it away under Essential Information for Future Reference, the smug bastard.

He gave Will one of his dead-eyed smiles; it was a challenge, throwing the ball back to Will. _Show me, Will. Show me just how much of a brat you are._

Will bristled, muscles snapping to attention, and launched himself at Hannibal, colliding hard with his body, and Hannibal was ready as he always was, taking the full force of Will’s passion, like he took anything and everything Will threw at him.

His hands clawed at the lapels of Hannibal’s suit jacket but Hannibal was too fast, catching his wrists. Will countered by wedging his thigh hard between Hannibal’s legs, pressing close to his balls, threatening pain for a second, but Hannibal spun both of them round and before Will knew it, his back was shoved against the door with his wrists pinned above his head and Hannibal’s teeth at his throat.

Sharp canines pressed hard against taut flesh and skin slick with sweat, threatening to pierce through, and Will whined with a furious desperation that might have been embarrassing, if shame was something that ever existed between the two of them. The bite was designed to cow Will, the way a lion will bite the neck of his mate.

_Submit._

Will growled and bucked his hips.

“Now, now, Will,” Hannibal purred, “We both know I am stronger than you. Bigger, faster, more experienced. And still, every time, you fight me.”

He sounded like a vaguely disappointed teacher whose prize pupil had failed to meet his expectations.

Hannibal started to roll his hips, setting an unbearably slow, lascivious pace, grinding their erections together with a punishing pressure.

Will thought about friction and fire, thought how he could come from just this, how the staggering force with which he burned for Hannibal never ceased to shock him. His eyes fluttered shut, and in the darkness, his imagination wreathed them in roaring flame.

“But, of course, this is how you like it.”

Hannibal gathered Will’s wrists into one hand and the other moved to Will’s hip, twisting and spinning him round so that he had Will pressed face-first into the door, covering Will’s entire body with his own.

Hannibal’s hand snaked under Will’s jacket, grabbing a fisftul of his shirt and yanking it up, and then dancing oh so softly over the sensitive skin surrounding the raised smile of scar tissue that branded Will’s belly. A possessive reminder. Will’s stomach muscles shuddered.

“Cunning boy. It’s a joy to watch you work. All day you’ve been such a busy bee, laying your trap. Carefully constructing the perfect cage, only to willingly walk into it yourself. How you love to throw yourself against its implacable bars.”

Hannibal was the cage and they both knew it. They were reaching the end game now.

“Please,” Will whispered, cheek pressed against the cool wood, and with that word he finally gave up the ghost, submitting entirely to Hannibal’s power, as he always did in the end, as Hannibal knew he would.

“What are you asking for, Will. Use your words.”

The patronising tone gave Will one last chance to rail against Hannibal, the last gasp before the water rose above his head. Will growled.

“Kiss me. _Fuck_. Kiss me or I’ll scream so fucking loud –”

And Will’s words were swallowed by Hannibal’s lips, his breath along with it, as Hannibal twisted Will’s head round by the hair and claimed his mouth in a savage kiss.

He licked into Will’s mouth, sucked hard on his lower lip, and Will wondered if any remnant of the steak still lingered there for Hannibal to taste. It must have, because Hannibal released Will’s lip, his tongue dragging instead over Will’s chin and under his jaw, following the path the bloody juice had taken.

And that was the final straw. Will went slack, his body boneless and no longer his own, a helpless little animal in the all encompassing jaws of an inescapable predator, reduced from resistance and agency to nothing more than meat. It was a kind of small and temporary death.

This was how the game worked. Will designed it to be as difficult as possible for himself, to work him hard, to make him struggle with all his strength, so that when Hannibal finally, inevitably sucked the fight out of him, the relief that came with giving in was all the more blissful and complete.

He belonged wholly to Hannibal now and relished how all the tension melted away, how soft and pliable he felt as Hannibal, all hard muscle, strong hands, and sharp teeth, devoured every inch of him.

“Good boy,” said Hannibal, “That’s better now, isn’t it? One can find solace in succumbing to the natural order of things.”

Hannibal’s nimble fingers were undoing Will’s button and fly, his cock springing mercifully free as Hannibal pulled both trousers and underwear down to bunch around his knees. Hannibal gripped him at the base, one long finger tracing up the shaft and cresting the head, smearing the sticky wetness there.

A guttural, primal sound bloomed in the back of Will’s throat and he thrust into Hannibal’s gloved fist. The sensation of leather against velvety soft skin was too much, he was going to go mad from it.

“You could just ask me,” Hannibal said, “To treat you with disdain. To handle you firmly. If you were anyone else, you probably would.”

He brought the gloved finger, now coated in pre-come, to Will’s lips and hummed approvingly in his ear as Will eagerly sucked it into his mouth, tongue lathing over the leather, tasting himself.

Hannibal’s gloveless hand, which had been pinning Will’s wrists above his head this whole time, finally loosened its grip, nails dragging down the sleeve of Will’s suit. Will obediently kept his arms raised and arched his back, pushing his now bared ass against Hannibal’s crotch, putting on a show.

Hannibal removed his finger from Will’s mouth, moving the hand to Will’s hip. He sighed, all faux sadness.

“Poor Will. Everything a struggle, everything so difficult. The easy path holds no reward for one such as you. The unique mind craves the rocky road.”

Will moaned and preened, for this was praise from Hannibal. The fascination he provided for Hannibal’s dark curiosity to paw over was seemingly bottomless. His ego flared.

“Stop monologuing and fuck me, old man," Will panted through gritted teeth, eliciting an amused gush of air from Hannibal’s nostrils, the closest to laughing Hannibal ever came.

“So impetuous. And such a filthy mouth.”

Hannibal tutted and Will felt him rummage in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“What’s to be done about that?” Hannibal mused, and stuffed the glove he’d slapped Will with into his unsuspecting mouth.

Will was momentarily stunned, and then he choked, a small, strangled sound pushing out past the wadded mass of leather that stretched his jaws. He could easily push the glove out with his tongue if he chose to, but both he and Hannibal knew he wouldn’t.

“Much better," said Hannibal lightly, as if they were in their kitchen and he was evaluating Will’s chopping technique.

Will seethed, craning his head round to throw a look of pure loathing at Hannibal. But when it came to this man – the man who was smiling benignly at him whilst winding fingers tightly around a fistful of his hair – Will’s treacherous body translated every emotion into arousal. His fury licked heat down his spine, curving it to meet the hand that splayed across the small of Will’s back and firmly pressed Will’s upper body down so that his forearms now leant against the door.

Saliva pooled in the tiny recesses of Will’s mouth that weren’t stuffed with leather and dribbled out the corner of his stretched lips as he bowed his head.

He thought absurdly of prayer, of churches, of Italy. The floor of the Norman Church in Palermo materialised at his feet, the skeleton with its clasped hands and beseeching skull tipped to the heavens, tipped towards Will himself, and Hannibal, the devil at his back.

Will knew no other form of worship but this, this church he’d built with Hannibal, where death and sex kissed like palms in prayer.

His ears pricked at the metallic purr of Hannibal’s zipper, the rustle of fabric, his hearing heightened by the dim twilight around them. Hannibal’s cock was released to slap wetly against his ass.

Will trembled as a finger lightly stroked at his hole. A wet sound from Hannibal’s mouth and Will felt spit hit the top of his crack and began to run down the crevice of his ass to meet Hannibal’s finger.

“I expect this will hurt a little,” Hannibal said, sounding like the doctor he had once been.

Will smiled secretively to himself as he pulled out the bottle of lube from his inside pocket and held it up over his shoulder. He felt Hannibal go entirely still. 

Will knew that Hannibal was realising how thoroughly Will had designed the game, that Will had prepared for the possibility that he would push Hannibal to break in public, had curated this moment where he could show Hannibal how well he had followed the breadcrumbs Will had laid out to lead them here.

Will’s blood pulsed in his veins and the air in his lungs solidified in anticipation of Hannibal’s reaction.

Hannibal sucked air through his teeth, a dangerous, serpentine noise.

“What a sly little creature you are.”

The awed pride in his voice made Will’s toes curl.

Hannibal took the bottle from him and flicked the cap open. He squeezed a sordid amount onto Will’s ass, smearing it with his hand, coating his fingers and then his dick. Hannibal was deliberately making an obscene mess of Will, as if to say, “If you insist on making me fuck you in such an unhygienic setting, I will soil you accordingly.”

One finger entered him, then two, twisting and probing and stretching, dispassionate and clinical. Will felt the familiar bodily instinct to reject the invasion, the ache of it, and then the relief as pain gave way to pleasure.

Hannibal was working a third finger in when, through the open transom window above their cubicle, the sound of scuffed footsteps and the voice of their waiter drifted in.

“Dude, that gay couple I had in my section, did you see them?”

Once again, Hannibal froze, fingers buried deep in Will, and Will could feel tension crackle the air around him. Hannibal was all coiled energy, like the lion in the grass who, thinking the antelope has spotted him, becomes impossibly still.

The rasping sound of a lighter.

“Older guy in the patterned suit, younger guy with the curly hair?” Another voice. Another waiter.

“Yeah, them.” Their waiter dragged on his cigarette. “Fucking weird vibes, man. I dunno what game they were playing but it was intense.”

“What, like a sugar daddy thing you reckon?”

The tension broke. Hannibal slowly eased his fingers out of Will.

“Maybe... The younger dude, it almost looked like the older guy had picked him up off the street, or hired him from some agency.”

And before Will could even register it, Hannibal had lined up and pushed into him in one smooth, powerful motion, right down to the hilt.

All the breath Will had been holding shuddered out of him as Hannibal twisted the dial from ‘not enough’ to ‘too much’ in the space of a second. Everything went black for a moment and Will thought he might have passed out, but then Hannibal pulled back slowly, inch by inch, and dragged Will back to consciousness.

He groaned, long and low, still muffled by the glove in his mouth, more vibration than sound, obscene strings of spittle running down his chin.

Hannibal folded over Will’s back, one hand at his hip to hold him steady, the other arm snaking under Will’s shirt and up his chest, until the gloved hand came to rest on Will’s throat. Hannibal’s fingertips smeared Will’s saliva over his jaw and neck, forehead pressing against the damp curls plastered by sweat to the nape of Will’s neck.

“I dunno,” their waiter continued. “He just looked out of place, like he’d never been in a place like this. Rough round the edges, you know? Sulked the entire time. Old guy looked like he was gonna murder him.”

At this, Hannibal slid his chin up to dig into where Will’s neck sloped into his shoulder, and hummed a sound of amusement in his ear. Will shuddered, tension rippling through his whole body, toes flexing in his shoes.

Hannibal ground his hips against Will, pulled out, and then slammed back in so hard it forced a whimper out of Will.

“Hush, Will. We wouldn’t want to be heard now, would we?” Hannibal’s words slipped into Will’s ear on a current of hot breath. “Or do we? Perhaps that was part of your plan as well...”

“So what happened?” the other waiter asked.

“... forcing me to take you in a public bathroom of all places, where anyone might walk in on us. Knowing I’d find it distasteful…”

Hannibal pulled all the way out, and Will almost whined like a wounded dog at the sudden feeling of loss.

“Bro, I fucking brought out their mains and two minutes later, old dude’s paying the bill and they’re gone. Barely touched their food.”

“A sordid sanctum where the shameful secrets of our bodies’ most base functions slip out into the light.”

Hannibal fisted himself and teased Will’s hole with the head of his cock, slick and fever hot. 

“Fucking huge tip though,” said the waiter, at precisely the moment that Hannibal slid the head of his cock back in, and Will choked on the hysterical giggle that rose up in him.

“Really, Will,” Hannibal rumbled, prim disapproval laid on thick.

Will was losing a grip on his senses, his body, reality; it was all too much, too potent, too absurd, too much information for his mind to process. Everything felt fractured and jumbled, as meaningless as a bag of Scrabble letters. Hannibal’s low voice seeping in his ear and filling his head, as his cock filled his insides; Will felt that there was no part of him that wasn’t also a part of Hannibal, that didn’t belong to him. He no longer knew where Hannibal ended and he began.

“They probably went home to fuck. If it was a rentboy situation, dude probably wanted to get his money’s worth”, said the second waiter.

That tugged at Will’s attention and he tightened around Hannibal.

“Hey, at least someone’s getting laid tonight,” said their waiter. There was the sound of shoes grinding out cigarettes, receding footsteps, and silence settled once again over the bathroom.

“Quite,” said Hannibal, and, without preamble or warning, began a punishing pace.

The hand that had only lain over Will’s throat like a threat up until now tightened. Hannibal squeezed Will’s trachea with a careful, measured application of pressure, knowing just where to press with medical precision and exactly how much force Will needed.

Will felt his mind settle and quieten.

This, _this,_ was what the entire day, the entire game, had been in pursuit of.

Hannibal’s magic trick.

The controlled choking and the resultant diminished oxygen to his brain – it was like Hannibal had found the off switch for Will’s mind. The maelstrom of his thoughts, the dark potholes that littered his psyche, and the ever roiling mist of emotion, all of it melted away into nothingness.

It allowed Will to become a creature solely made of physical matter and sensation, meat and blood and viscera, existing and reacting on a carnal, instinctive level of pure feeling, momentarily freed from the tangled tethers of his brain that constantly pulled him out of the moment, demanding that he analyse and interrogate and make connections.

Quite simply, Hannibal had found a way to provide Will with peace. It was the greatest gift that Hannibal could give him. 

Hannibal slammed into him, cruel and relentless, adjusting his hips to find the angle that allowed him to drag against Will’s prostate, over and over, and Will did whine now, loud and peevish, echoing off the bathroom tile.

The concept of being heard, of being caught, of other people existing outside of himself and Hannibal – none of it stood a chance of registering with Will in his current state. He was utterly undone.

“Good, so good for me. You take me so well. Beautiful, wicked, wild thing.”

Hannibal always became loquacious at this point, and Will loved to let the dark poetry of his words wash over him, dripping like honey in his ears, intensifying his senses.

“What a gift you are. So full of surprises. Endlessly unfolding. To all and sundry, you appear as the innocent lamb to my lupine evil. They cannot fathom the true threat at hand. The artful deceiver hiding in the shadow of the beast.”

He peeled away from Will’s back, straightening up in order to get the purchase and distance that allowed him to fuck Will fully, with every inch, from tip to stem. Will rose up with him, still gripped by the throat at the end of Hannibal’s outstretched arm, and pressed his palms against the door.

Hannibal’s self-control began to crumble, his breath coming hard, grunts reluctantly punctuating the air, and his thrusts losing some of their steady rhythm. 

Close now, so close. Hannibal was pushing him up the hill, the hill that led to the clifftop where everything Will knew to be true had ended, and everything else had begun. Freedom, power, peace, bliss – the nirvanic high that was only possible with Hannibal, because of Hannibal.

They were once again staggering on that cliff edge, swaying together, and when Will twisted to look back at him, it was as if they really were right back there. His hair had come loose, strands of it plastered against his forehead, mouth slack and lower teeth bared, and those eyes, blown so wide and black with desire that it seemed as if he had no whites at all. He loved to see Hannibal like this, at the end of everything, finally looking as ruined as Will felt.

“Insidious boy, how you’ve sunk your claws in me.”

Hannibal words stumbled forth, staccato around his breath. He locked eyes with Will and for the second time that night, Will saw his own expression on Hannibal’s face.

“I couldn’t be parted from you if I tried; we are utterly indivisible, you and I. You are more dangerous than you could possibly know.”

Will’s orgasm soared and crashed into him like the force of the Atlantic rushing up to meet him and he was drowning, eyes rolling back and muscles convulsing as hot streams pulsed from the cock he hadn’t touched once and splattered against the cubicle door.

He rose up on the balls of his feet, clenching hard around Hannibal as he fucked up into Will, and with that Will was wringing Hannibal’s orgasm out of him, Hannibal’s hips jerking and stuttering, both pairs of thighs trembling against one another.

They balanced there for a moment, teetering and taut, and then the tide of Will’s orgasm went out and he slumped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Hannibal caught him, of course. Hannibal always caught him, even when he was the one who cut the strings.

Hannibal’s strong, steady arms held Will upright. He took the glove from Will’s mouth, let it fall to the ground, and pulled out of Will. He carefully held Will up as he led him backwards, came round the front of him, and sat Will down on the toilet.

Will felt limp, a drunk rag-doll. His mind was not yet back online from it’s temporary shut down. He watched blearily as Hannibal tucked himself back into his trousers, did them up, and crouched down to squat in front him.

He curled a hand round the back of Will’s neck and pulled him forward so that his brow came to rest against Hannibal’s nose. Hannibal inhaled deeply, filling his insides with the scent of Will’s sweaty hairline, a shot of pure pheromones, and hummed with satisfaction. Hannibal said this was his favourite smell in the world and this had become a post-sex ritual for him. It grounded Will as his consciousness floated down from the ether and sank back into his mind.

At that moment, the bathroom door opened and someone stepped in, paused in confusion at the darkness, and then found the light switch.

Hannibal and Will were bathed in warm, yellow light, and Will was thankful that the restaurant had gone for ambiance in its bathrooms instead of the clinical white glare that would have likely blinded him.

The man was peeing in one of the urinals, and the noise was strangely comical, a banal reminder of where they were and what bathrooms were actually designed for.

Will sat back and blinked dully at Hannibal in the light, as if he was waking from a deep sleep and seeing him for the first time. He was met with one of Hannibal’s true smiles, a rare and precious thing reserved almost solely for Will, glowing with pride and approval and fondness. He pressed a finger to his lips, but Will still felt too leaden to do anything that might make noise.

Slowly, carefully, Hannibal pulled out a napkin from his pocket and Will registered the dark red stain – it was the napkin with which he’d wiped the blood from Will’s mouth at the dinner table. Hannibal gently wiped Will’s brow and the saliva from his mouth and neck, before taking care of the dampness between his legs.

He was always deeply moved by how soft and tender Hannibal was after sex. The switch from punishing dominance to loving caretaker should have given Will whiplash but he found it comforting, the way it encompassed the duality of Hannibal’s nature, reminding him that both sides of Hannibal bent to Will’s whims, in constant service of his needs and desires.

Will was the only thing Hannibal compromised for, the only person he ever allowed himself to be led by; how quickly his love for Will had shifted from inconvenient to indulgent. Only for Will would Hannibal be squatting on a bathroom floor, sweaty, hair a mess, having just fucked him next to a toilet, with the sound of a man urinating six feet away.

The man left without washing his hands.

“Disgusting,” said Hannibal.

“My come is literally dripping down the door,” said Will, his voice rough and ragged. “I don’t think either of us are in a position to judge.”

“Welcome back,” said Hannibal. He knew it always took a while for Will to return from the void he’d been chasing all day.

Will lifted a heavy hand and smoothed Hannibal’s sex-mussed hair back into place. Hannibal caught his hand and pressed a kiss to the silken skin on the inside of his wrist, and then turned to wipe the door down with the napkin.

* * *

Will vaguely recalled being guided back through the restaurant by Hannibal’s arm around his waist, and thinking dimly that Hannibal hadn’t done much to tidy either of them up first. That was unlike Hannibal, always so fastidious about personal presentation, and so Will knew that Hannibal meant for everyone in the restaurant to know that he’d just fucked Will in the bathroom. _Peacock_.

He also remembered how their waiter’s eyes had gone wide when he’d seen them, realising they’d never left, slowly registering that they’d come from the bathroom outside which he’d talked about them. As they passed the young man, Hannibal tossed him the napkin. He caught it and his gormless expression instantly morphed into one of disgust at its dampness.

Will had to swallow his laughter. Hannibal could be such a bitch sometimes.

Now they were in the car, driving home. Will felt sated and languorous, his head heavy and nodding, the normal mania of his thoughts calmed to a low-frequency hum.

Hannibal watched the road, frowning slightly, drumming a finger on the steering wheel. Telltale signs of something snagging at his mind.

“Speak now, or forever hold your peace. I’m about to pass out,” Will mumbled.

“The idea that you were some sort of escort, that I was paying you to fuck me,” said Hannibal, “You liked it.”

It was more of a statement than a question, but Will confirmed it anyway, skin prickling with heat at the memory of how hard he’d clenched around Hannibal.

“Yes.”

“Is that something you may wish to explore further?”

“How do you mean?”

“Perhaps a more explicit roleplay scenario.”

That set a spark off in Will’s imagination, but he was too tired to feed the flame right now.

“I think that’s definitely something we could discuss, yes.”

Hannibal nodded, satisfied. And yet, moments later, that finger began tapping on the steering wheel again.

“Hannibal.” It was a fond warning that came with knowing someone so well. “Don’t kill the waiter.”

“He called me old.”

“I call you old all the time.”

Will looked at him through drooping eyelids. Hannibal laid his palm against Will’s cheek and smiled faintly at the road.

“Dear Will, you should know by now that you are the exception to all my rules.”

Will’s mouth sighed into a smile as his eyes closed and sleep claimed him.


End file.
